Annihilation Clash of Destiny

[Voldran Molf]

Information

Shadow Lord, Prince of Nightmare, Dream Lord​

"Galactic Basic" | <"Mandalorian"> | ["Úr-kittat"] | ~"Telepathic" communication ~ | << comm. channel >>​

Objective: Perform the ritual.
Location: Death Star III
Equipment: Armour | Sword || OPBC-01m

Allies
Darth Solipsis | Darth Vinaze | Ibaris Varanin | Deonis Laythar | Kann | Cesare Demici | Aphon | Da'Razel | Janus Vipsanius | Open
Enemies
Corazona von Ascania | The Lord of Hunger | Onrai | Open for a story, not for duel​

Voldran continued his chanting and incantations; for the moment, he could do so in peace, as a brief lull had come between the attacks. It probably lasted only a few minutes, if even that, but it was enough for his thoughts to drift away. Just a few precious moments in which he could truly be himself, and dream of a world he had always longed for, a world where he was free, and no one controlled or manipulated him.

He had often wondered what his life would be like if he were free. There was so much he could have done; he could have roamed the galaxy once more, a prince without lands or wealth, glad to fight as a mercenary for the causes he believed in. And beyond that, he never despised the so-called “knightly games”; he would have found his place in any court. It would have been a relatively “peaceful” life - at least to him - for he could have done what he wished, in the way he wished. And perhaps, that had always been the most important thing for him.

But for that to happen, his mother - and everyone who remembered the rune carved into his soul - would have to die. Because as long as any of them lived, they could control him, just as his mother once had. Yet… perhaps one day, Voldran would be strong enough to shatter even that chain. Perhaps he could even free himself from the smoke demon. Those, too, were parts of the same dream.

In the past, he had spent decades searching, both in the realm of the living and the dead for a way to purge the demon within him, but he had found no answer. Maybe now, in this present moment…

… the present…

… it was the tremor of the space station that pulled him back to reality. Voldran immediately requested data through his biochip, still continuing his chant. The incoming reports confirmed that one of the Imperial ships had crashed into the section where the throne room was located. His stomach churned, and a surge of disgust; deeper than ever before... filled him towards the Empire and its Emperor, Darth Solipsis

Voldran was the kind of commander, the kind of strategist, who despised sacrificing his own people.

But now… now he wanted nothing more than to see the Empire fall. It had to fall, they could not be allowed to conquer half the galaxy. If they did, it would cast a darkness not seen for millennia, and the half-blood wanted no part in that.

The man grimaced; he could feel his mother’s aura now more clearly than ever. He knew her too well... Dodhorn was out there, somewhere upon the station, hunting.

How he would have rejoiced to hunt her in turn to bring her down and kill her. But that, too, was only a dream… a dream he might one day fulfil. For now, there was only one thing he could do. And he did it.

He focused on the Force, drew runes, and kept chanting. The ritual had to be maintained, no matter the cost; and Voldran… was not strong enough to resist.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Death Star III

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber

The moment Ravoch gave the order, the room exploded in motion. Blaster fire tore through the haze in pulses of blue rings.

Stun rounds. Each one strong enough to drop him cold if they connected clean. The troopers fanned out in perfect formation, like cogs in the machine. Ace's lightsaber moved in arcs, each swing deflecting another wave, the blue-on-blue clash turning the barracks into a strobe lit storm.

He tried to push forward, but Ravoch was already there. Before he could close the gap, a sudden weight pressed against him, an invisible hammer of Force that shoved him back toward the troopers. He caught himself mid-slide, boots skidding across the scorched deck. The hiss of blaster fire never slowing.

He'd fought through worse, but not while exhausted, not against this. Ravoch wasn't just stronger... he was deliberate. Calculated. Every push, every gesture herded Ace exactly where he wanted him.

Something clicked in Ace's head. He twisted his lightsaber in a sharp upward arc, the Force flowing with the motion, and carved through a cluster of power conduits along the wall. Sparks erupted like a lightning storm, followed by a deafening pop as the barracks lights died.

Darkness fell in an instant. Total darkness. The only illumination left came from the erratic flicker of small electrical fires and the faint, angry glow of Ravoch's crimson blade. Ace froze for a fraction of a second, steadying his breath. The troopers shouted over the ringing in their helmets, blind and disoriented. Stun fire crackled blindly into the dark.

Ace thumbed his lightsaber off. Blue light vanished, swallowed by shadow. He moved low, fast, silent - just like Bonadan's alleys.

Ace recalled his earliest form of training. Complete sensory deprivation, only trusting the Force to guide him forward. Now was the time to really put it into action. He slipped between the rows of bunks, stun bolts cut past where he'd been a moment before.

Behind him, Ravoch's presence burned steady and patient... that crimson furnace in the dark. The Sith wouldn't chase blindly. He'd wait, like a predator certain the prey would return.

The rebel's head turned, not by thought, but by instinct. Left. Toward the faintest ripple of safety. Ace moved quietly each step placed with purpose. He reached for... something, hand brushing cold durasteel. The Force urged him forward, just as another volley screamed through the dark. He ducked, pressed the control panel, and slipped through as the door hissed open.

The corridor beyond was chaos in waiting. Smoke bled through the door, wrapping around red strobes that flickered overhead.

Ace didn't slow. The Force tugged at him, shaping the dark into instinct. The troopers ahead were tense, waiting for the lights to stabilize. He moved first. In a burst of motion, he shouldered into the nearest trooper, impact staggering him. Another turned, blaster rising, but Ace's lightsaber flared mid-spin, splitting the weapon clean in two.

The rest opened fire. Blue stun rings tore through the smoke. Ace ducked, blade sweeping up to deflect two. A locker door ripped free under his outstretched hand, slamming two troopers into the wall. Their blasters went wild. Ace surged forward, carving through another volley, then vanished into the haze again.

The last pair fired blind, bolts hissing past as Ace reappeared in a burst of blue light. Two clean strikes, one cut, one disarm. Then the corridor fell still. He stood among the wreckage, breath harsh but steady. The next door flickered red ahead, the Force pulling faintly beyond it.

Ace could sense Ravoch looming. Ace turned toward the light, shoulders squared. He didn't have a plan. Just the will to keep moving.

Kyrothian Ravoch | Dark Forces​

 

[Kael Varnok]

Kael didn't interrupt her. He rarely did, especially when someone spoke from belief rather than logic. There was a weight to her words that felt foreign to him — like light slipping through armor seams he hadn't realized were there.

When she spoke of mercy, of compassion being what set them apart from the Sith, his jaw tightened slightly, but not out of disagreement. It was… envy. Somewhere, buried deep under the calluses of command and violence, he wished he still believed it could be that simple.

He let out a low, rough exhale, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Force… you sound like my old instructor," he said, forcing a crooked grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Back on Drosk, if you told a man to 'seek compassion,' he'd probably hand you his blaster and ask you to put him out of his misery."

His attempt at humor fell flat — more to break tension than to earn laughter. He stared off past the medbay wall, gaze unfocused. "Where I grew up, we didn't have hospitals. You got hit, you either stood back up or you were left behind. We didn't have doctors, just… brothers with enough sense to stop bleeding long enough to finish the fight."

He paused, then added more quietly, "I was leading squads before I could even read. Thirteen when the Republic found me. I thought they were slavers at first." He gave a faint huff of amusement, though it quickly died. "Turns out they were rescuers. Funny how the galaxy decides what you're worth."

For a moment, the soldier bled through — posture straightening, voice tightening, instinctively slipping into the rhythm of briefing language. "You learn to compartmentalize. Lock it all down. Objective, route, fallback point, casualty rate—"

He caught himself mid-sentence, the rhythm snapping like a thread pulled too tight. His breath hitched.

"...Sorry," he muttered, shaking his head and leaning back, one hand braced against his knee. "Didn't mean to—slip like that."

For just an instant, his left eye narrowed into a sharp, predatory slit — an inhuman flicker of golden light that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He grimaced, a muscle twitching along his jaw.

"She's not afraid of you yet," the voice in his head whispered, amused and cold. "Give her time."

Kael's lips twitched into something halfway between a smile and a wince. "Ignore that," he said, more to himself than to her. "My mind's got a few unwanted passengers these days."


He exhaled again, steadier this time, and met her gaze. "You've got faith. Hold onto it. I've seen what happens when it breaks… and trust me, the galaxy's got enough people like me already."

Lilianna L'lerim

 

[Matsu Ike]

OBJECTIVE: Crystal Assembly
ALLIES: Jedi Connel Vanagor
ENEMIES: Sith

The crystals resonated with the force... lignan was more tuned with the darkside but it was still within the force and she could feel it... feel more of it as there were others all around them. Allowing herself a chance to move around the chamber when others were running and the sounds of combat echoed around her senses on the station. She could feel Acier Moonbound and offered him some thoughts to focus and push energies. Allowing herself to extend her conscious thoughts over to him. shifting and manipulating the molecules as she could feel him in... a fight but she wasn't entirely certain about danger. She spoke more directly to him while her breathing focused a moment. 'SENZU BEAN.' She focused the force energies, jolting them so if he wanted they could flow into him to revitalize and calm. There was a lot of benefit to a simple refresh in the moment of stress she had found while moving around the chambers. Connel was there and getting ready for explosives. It was a start, they wouldn't do much to the superstructure... she would need to work on that when she looked at the crystals.

"Hmmm remember the good times when they made some super duper shooting weapon and you had child soldiers blow it up with dangerous weapons?" SHe was speaking it for Connel while she looked but there was also a cloaked figure there she was holding in place while she moved around. Her hand going to the crystal as she debated what to do with it. "Hmmm blowing it up though could be more dangerous, unstable and this close.... but leaving it here means there can be more things it is used for." She tapped it and around the room several times with a finger as she was listening to it. "Now what to do, what to do." Her stomach rumbled as she was debating it with a look. "Oh the pain.. I am hungry and that mystery meat you serve is not something good." She said it while looking at the crystal where she was tapping it. Her thoughts of the structure of it went deeper and deeper when she allowed her manipulations and alterations to come around as her hand came out and she held some crumbs before eating them. "THey are like little pop rocks on your tongue." The jedi master said it looking at the cloaked figure as she held out a tongue and the audible snap, crackle, pop sound was there.

She indulged while looking at them and let them go a little to run away... mostly down through the floor several levels... or were they falling upwards through the ceiling? She could debate that all day now... and eating candy crystals was well fattening... though she might be able to offset it if she entangled the molecules in her stomach while breaking it down so they were moving through to a new location. It was possible... and something she didn't have the time to do right now or plot out... questions for another time like if all those technobests dream of electric sheep possible. She kept moving and spoke into her hand as she was entangling it with Connels headset allowing her to speak. "Hmmm... we should keep moving, but first chance we get Connel we need to ask directions. Or not directions but we should plot a visit, one of those Coruscanti cities where the girls are blonde with death star sized titt....." her voice trailed off when she looked at someone had rushed in and pointed a blade at her. The lightsaber pointing at her as she debated what to do with the situation....

"I see, so you have chosen. Then let the battle be met" Her movement was faster to the eye... in truth she was slowing down the movement of the molecules and atoms around her... slowing it down with intense coldness that made everything be perceived as slow and still but she was moving fast. Her tiny frame folding up as she brought blue ripples of energy above her and the cloaked sith fighter as she spoke. "Shoryuken!" The ancient Atrisian word something special as the sith flew up from the powerful blow into the ripples of energy.. the displacement closing the gap when she looked at the other one who was there. "Where did... how..." Matsu looked at the soldiers for a moment. "They went to a place they can't hurt people anymore... I think it is filled with shrimp and only shrimp." THey seemed to be thinking better of it while she jedi master remained there just hovering off of the floor with her eyes watching them and hair floating like it was underwater. Kyber beads and bells within it making the illusion of starlight shimmering while they weapons collapsed on themselves and they were running into the arms of Connel.

 

[Connel Vanagor]

What is left
UNDISCLOSED
LOCATION - Death Star III

Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]

He had no illusions about playing hero. There would be no lucky shot, no miracle arc that would make the Empire fold in one breath. What he could do was make the station sick at the spine — twist its guts so that, if the superlaser fired afterward, the teeth might snap. He could slow them down. Make them bleed time. Make the rest of the fleet arrive to find a hulking, impotent skeleton where the weapon had been.

Matsu’s voice came through as a thread, bright and impatient. “Keep moving”, she hummed like a song she couldn’t help finishing. Connel let the thought slide off him. One more job. One more sabotage to finish — not for glory, not for show, but because letting the Empire keep this thing would be a crime he could not tolerate.

~On the codex~, he breathed then — the phrase that meant business and had nothing to do with honor. Two words that tightened the world like a noose. ~On the codex~.

He moved like a shadow with a purpose, hands finding nooks and joints the station’s architects had thought invisible, feeling structural balances the way some men count heartbeats. He didn’t need to name the metal or the circuit; he thought of it as “the spine.” Making the spine wobble would be enough. Making certain regulators sing out of tune would be enough. Not to break the crystals — never that — but to place the system one misaligned breath away from catastrophe: a ruin that would eat the weapon’s aim when it tried to breathe fire.

He worked in silence. Where Matsu made music and molted steel with a laugh, Connel built poetry out of absence. He left no visible footprints, only a string of quiet consequences that would unravel on their own time.

Radio hissed through the stolen comm-link in his hand — another squad, a cluster sweep diverted toward the tram concourse. He smiled, small, the inside of his mask colder than the air. The wrong doors opened. Men moved into corridors he had already prepared to be useless to them.

They arrived in groups: first an officer barking orders, then two squads, then the ones who still thought obeying would keep them safe. Connel’s blade stayed dark at his hip; his hands belonged to a different set of trades. He preferred the quiet kill. He preferred the look on a man’s face the moment his illusions about armor and orders cracked.

One by one, he picked them apart.

He never theatrically butchered them. He dismantled them the way a surgeon removes a tumor — precise, merciless, and final. A single line of an elbow, a snapped tendon, a quick forced breath into the stilled throat. When anyone offered him argument — the language of duty or fear — he answered in the Ariel way: short, cold, implacable.


You won’t be missed by your masters.

When a trooper lunged too fast, Connel met him with an angled foot that sent him cartwheeling across a console. When another tried to double-tap a fallen comrade’s blaster, Connel’s hand closed across the man’s throat and the fight ceased like a flipped switch. He never wasted time. There were no screams to savor — only the hum of things ending and the small, clinical satisfaction of a job completed without vanity.

Once, as a platoon tried to form up, a corporal spat,

“You’re a monster.”

Connel’s response was a breath and a blade that did not sing but which rearranged the man’s stance until collapse was the only option. He left them not as corpses to be gawked at but as stains on plating — blunt evidence that a shadow had walked through.

When it was done he paused; for a heartbeat he felt the small, ragged tears those deaths had made in the Force. They were tiny. He had no illusions about absolution. He was not there to be forgiven. He was there to ensure the weapon could not sing.

He keyed Azrael once, a small, private exchange that needed no flourish. [Done on my end. How’s your pattern?]


A muffled laugh. [Pretty]. The voice was crude, warm, and a little proud. That kind of camaraderie was an old, steady thing he’d been taught to keep close.

He looked up toward the tram line where Matsu moved like a comet of oddities and song. He sent her one bare thought, as efficient as a blade: ~Finish the crystals. I’ll be right behind you~.

No answer in words.

He turned and slipped away into the ducts, Night and Day dark at his side, the station’s bones quietly altered in ways that could not be immediately seen but would, later, make the superlaser miss the point entirely — or die trying.

Matsu Ike • Dark Forces
Personal Effects - Omega Squad Loadouts - Shadow Sanctuary - Enterprise​

 

[Lirka Ka]

TAGS - Da'Razel Helix Phaelissia

This is it.

This is what it meant to be alive. In flames, her foes found holiness. But Lirka was perhaps more simple than them - the mere spilling of blood was enough for her. This is what the Primordial Darkness bid, the endless struggle of strength against strength. Writhing and slamming against each other till one power could overcome the other. The chain of primal simplicity. Were they really much better than beasts in this moment, animals scrapping to stay alive?

Helix and Phaelissia brawled against the zealots, bringing forth that mechanized fury that Lirka wished to match. She had a good audience now to spread the tale of Lirka Ka - let these zealous firebrands bear witness to a demon of frigid cold.

That brief moment of fear Lirka could hear from Kandora was like blood in the water. An intoxicating sensation, her time spent with Darth Nefaron and his prattle of fear had certainly nestled within her black hearts. There was a certain spark that fear gaze the sadists of the Galaxy - fear meant there were dreams to devour. And Lirka was certainly hungry.

It was not uncommon for the brutish Once-Sephi to be underestimated; indeed, so much of her own calculating schemes had revolved around those who underestimated the supposedly simple. Lirka may have been utterly maniacal, in the grip of enough combat stimulants and spice to kill a normal creature - but such chemical insanity gave way to a mind held in the grasp of enhanced perception. Let them underestimate the beast once more - it would be a foolish mistake.

With Gazim's charge beginning, a distorted snarl left Lirka's helm. Moving now to match the massive zealot's own charge she seemed to be attempting a simple collision of unstoppable forces. Till she dropped into a slide, her massive metallic form screeching against the floor as her blade hacked out - aiming now to strike the goliath in the back of her leg. It was far from a death blow.

No, Lirka was attempting to maim. To leave broken bodies alongside the corpses. Sadism unbound.

 

[Kurayami Bloodborn]

Objective: Takodana – Sacred Claim

Location: Nymeve Lake

Ship: Here

Equipment: XC-86 Assault Commando armor, Modified SE-44C blaster pistols(x2 thigh holsters), Lightsaber

As the Olys Turhaya broke the atmosphere, this time there was no mistaking the intent as it came to settle on the landing pad, the four kyber enhanced composite beam laser cannons sweeping a wide arc clear for the ship. A crushing Force presence radiated from within as soon as the ramp lowered as the ship touched down. When Kurayami emerged from the ship he made his way quickly to the governors office, Tracing his earlier steps any who dared try to bar his path found themselves violently thrown to the wayside, flung like an inconsequential child's toy. Reaching the office he knelt next to the place where the charge had been planted, listening through the Force, feeling the way everything flowed allowing the picture of the past to slowly knit itself together.

Watching the meeting with the assassin all the way up until the time he was taken, from there the Force faded though he did see just long enough to notice that the Governor had indeed survived. The body laying there was not his. That belonged to the unfortunate assassin. "Good, at least the kill will be mine." Smirking the new cybernetic was already beginning to map the entirety of the room and searching for lifesigns utilizing any and all means available to it, as soon as the Corellian thought of something the feature activated. This was going to prove very useful in tracking the man down, especially when coupled with his abilites that were already finely honed.

Seeing there was nothing more to be gained here and that there were no false doors or hidden exits, Kurayami exited back out to the landing pad and let the Force guide him, feeling specifically for the sense of waning life as it was clear the Governor had ben wounded quite severely. Pushing onward into the castle, his viridian blade sprang to life. Most Sith soldiers by now realized the folly of standing against a walking nexus, who was bent on ending only a single person. The legions parted as though welcoming an esteemed guest.

It was not long before he found himself standing before the Governor yet again. "Governor, your assassin failed. Twice. And nearly killed you in the process. However this time, there are none who will, or can stop me on this planet. Make peace with what you called a life, and welcome the void. For you there is not afterlife, no time in the Netherworld. And your Empire will not mourn your passing nor remember your name." Extinguishing the saber, Kurayami clipped it to his belt and yanked the man towards him from across the room. "Troopers...!" The rest of the order was cut off as the Governor's windpipe was slammed onto the waiting Corellian's gauntleted grip. As the armored hand slowly closed around his throat the hissing of atmospheric seals could be heard as the helmet released. Pulling it off with his free hand, the Corellian started the man directly in the eye, the last sight the Governor beheld a gruesome one. The cybernetic eye, uncovered by synth skin, skeletal and inhuman, and all over the head were spiderwebbing, deep, scars, holding an eerie green glow. The opposite eye had the same coloration as the scars and two large gouges, perhaps from shrapnel, or elsewhere, it was hard to say in all honesty. "Gaze upon what you created and know that the abyss is displeased, you have been chosen as a sacrifice to the Nether."

Without another word a rift to the Netherworld opened and closed in an instant leaving a blank space where the two had been standing moments ago.

Ivalyn Yvarro | Merryn Sellek | Davorin Orsava | Emilia Locke | Bella

 

[Darth Vinaze]

THEME
​

The Prophet cackled as the Death Star hummed with the unmistakable sound of the superlaser charging. It coursed through his blood, the deep drone like a creature from the abyss, calling to him. This was the Palpatinian Ideal... the creation of monsters. The New Sith Order had created a few, but this was the magnum opus, a rotund beast with a belly to swallow worlds. Its roar was its wakening, and with its talon the beast maimed the Alliance Starbird, its kyber claw of destruction annihilating the flagship Mon Mothma.

In an instant, thousands of souls are silenced, their essence bent to the will of the Emperor. The entire ritual bursts with energy, each cultist chanting to a renewed fervor, the fingers of the Sith crackle with lightning. They can feel the storm coming, electricity coursing through their nerves like a warning.

"Now... now is the hour of our victory. The winds of Hyperspace blow, the storm gathers!"

His hands in the air in praise for the Emperor, lightning, the catalyst of the brewing storm, arced between his fingers.

"The time has come for the walls of the galaxy to be battered by the storm, we will--" the Prophet stuttered as he saw his rival step through space to stand before him. His blood boiled, "No! You creature!"

With the power of the death and destruction wrought upon the Alliance Fleet building within him, focus on the ritual turns to blind rage at the sight of the interloper. Only she would be able to reach here, this deep inner sanctum... the creature of the Nether that draped itself in Light.

Darth Vinaze whips his arms down in her direction, his splayed, clawed finger nails gripping at her mind. He diffuses the pent up power, not into the growing Force Storm as he should but at Eina. The power of memories, echoes in the Force, twisted into a dark weapon assails Eina's mind, the final moments of the crew of the Mon Mothma, thousands of them. Their hopes, their dreams, love, faith... and fear. The only thing left as the superlaser dashes all of it aside, worthless... unsaved. The overwhelming emotions would hopefully be enough to break a hole in her fortitude, where her own fears would be drained for the empowerment of the storm.

"Inteeerlopeeerr! You will not ruin this! Your fear! Show me your fear!"

TAGS
Writing opposite Eina L'lerim-Vandiir
Darth Solipsis / Voldran Molf / Da'Razel / Ibaris Varanin
Kann / Heinrich Faust / Vireth / Deonis Laythar​

 

[Luvaen Malstadt]

​

Allied: Galactic Empire
Opposition: Corazona von Ascania | x2 Jedi
Location: Death Star III | Nondescript Corridor
Objective: III

There was a strange confirmation seeing the Rodian's mind fall apart. Luvaen received not a surge of enjoyment from the spectacle he'd forced, but rather some small shred of pity. Pity, not because the young Sith felt sorrow for the Jedi, but instead through the lens that he was watching a wounded animal that needed to be put down.

Like a spider that'd weaved its web, Luvaen watched as the helpless Rodian's confidence and life drained from his body and eyes. External digestion of the soul, the high spirits that carry the oath of whichever Jedi Order they'd shouldered. Hollow and increasingly alone, there would be no coming back from such a shameful act.

The Rodian was a broken toy, and broken toys would be disposed of in due time.

While distracted, Luvaen chanced upon the lapse in engagement between himself and his immediate opponent, raising his right-handed blade and slashing diagonally towards the Chiss. They too would suffer the error in their judgement, the hubris of their ways. They'd all made an attempt upon the faceless shadow's life, and now his retort would be that of a promise. No exceptions.

There was only so much room in the galaxy, the cramped confines of the warring path seldom offering wiggle room for the likes of bleeding hearts. Not enough oxygen to share with those that dared assume themselves an objective good for all that bled.

For their service, their spilled blood, they would receive the relief of understanding that far greater schemes awaited all outside - beyond the Death Star III.

This was only a start for Luvaen. A taste of what was to come.

Potential was a sweet, pleasing tease upon the tongue.

Victory would be a feast for the senses.

 

[Revna Marr]

SO Allies: Darth Caedes // Srina Talon // Gerwald Lechner // Naamino Zuukamano
// Haro Aven // Madrona A’Mia // Lina Ovmar // Taeli Raaf

Other Potential Allies: The Lord of Hunger // Onrai

Enemy Targets: Deonis Laythar + NPCs

Gear: Lightsaber ​

Only moments passed before those that would oppose them revealed themselves before Caedes and those with him - four enemies, come to harass and hinder the Sith King and his chosen allies. Revna had just finished dispatching some poor, misguided fool when a voice reached her. She turned her fiery eyes upon the one who was speaking, listening to his prattle with mild interest, raising a silvery-black eyebrow at his choice of words.

Did she tire of the ‘pointless’ slaughter of those who couldn’t resist her? Was he hearing himself?? Was he and the Empire he had chosen to serve not doing the same as she and her King and her companions?

This person spoke of some Sith’ari, and she almost scoffed. If she had a credit chip for every time she’d heard some Sith claim they were the fabled Sith’ari, she’d be rich beyond measure. Oh the hubris of Sith, she mused to herself. Thinking themselves all worthy of the title. At least these fools managed to rip into the Core…

A truth that surely would aggravate her Master, as He had been trying for so long to guide the Sith Order towards the Jedi and their precious Core Worlds - always to be met with resistance and opposition. No doubt, she would be hearing His ranting and raving about it later.

Revna remained unperturbed when two of their opponents moved to block her and Darth Caedes from proceeding forward. She eyed the two of them critically - one with a slaver’s electro whip, the other with a blazing cross-guard lightsaber. The electro-whip stirred dark memories from her past, a past where she’d been locked in the chains of enslavement, and she felt the hot prickle of hatred dance underneath her skin. She was well aware of what that whip could do and she had no intention of letting it anywhere near her. Thankfully, she wasn’t just skilled in close quarters combat, but at a distance as well should the need arise for it.

She felt the Force shift around them all; their opponents were tapping into the Dark Side and somewhere, she could feel an immense pull, a drain…that was eerily similar to one she had felt not too long ago. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly…was he here to aid this upstart Empire, like he’d been there to aid the other Imperials during their attack of the Holy Worlds? Or was he here for something else?

Revna could feel her lover’s pride as she offered the suggestion to Caedes that she could feast upon the sacrifices meant for the ritual. Silently, Caedes presented images into her mind - his way of responding to her. She didn’t resist, seeing the images of Brosi and their confrontation with the Lord of Hunger unfold. Caedes confirmed her suspicions that the Lord of Hunger was indeed here, somewhere, feeding on the ritual himself.

Of course he is, she thought. How can one such as he resist such a bounty, ripe for the taking?

Next, she saw images of a proverbial tug of war between this upstart Emperor’s ritual and the draining Hunger that attempted to siphon away the power from the ritual. She felt Caedes’ amusement flicker along their bond and bid her to imagine her joining forces with the Lord of Hunger - to add yet another layer of complication to the dark ritual being undertaken deep in the heart of the Death Star III. The notion or idea seemed to please the King, and she entertained the suggestion he passed to her.

Caedes directed her attention to the sorcerer that blocked their pathway - informing her that they were the conduit of the other source of Force Drain she was sensing, and encouraged her to feast upon them. If she targeted them, then perhaps she could put a kink in their plans. It was a very tempting idea, too tempting. In fact, her Void-Hunger was already aroused and she could feel it pressing against her will - making its desire known to her. It wanted to be unleashed, it wanted to feed. Absent-mindedly, she heard Caedes speak aloud before issuing Acolyte Zuukamano an order to destroy those that had come to challenge them. This would work out in her favor, for Naamino could act as a distraction while she unleashed the insidious Void. The change came over her in the blink of an eye as she stopped resisting the pull of the Hunger and let it surge forth from within. Instantly, eyes of fire bled black as a chill emanated from her form - the cold draw of a cosmic black hole. In this state, she could more than sense the Lord of Hunger somewhere out there - she could feel him and his drain. Her presence would ghost against his, a sort of recognition on her part. He was a very different sort of creature than she was, but she was curious to see if they could work together in this - or if they would gravitate towards one another to try and consume the other.

It was a test as much as it was an extended hand of temporary alliance.

Tendrils of shadowy darkness, of Hunger, slithered free from her form to race outwards - seeking those with the pulse of life, of warmth, within them. It was a delicate affair; on one hand, she had to make sure she didn’t drain her own allies but on the other she had to release the Hunger to feed on her enemies, and she was still learning how to differentiate friend from foe when she was overtaken by the Void.

The first victims - dying troopers that were scattered on the floor between her and the opposition - withered and turned into desiccated husks as the tendrils of Hunger claimed them. Life essence trickled into her, and her pool of power deepened just a little more, as if their deaths gave her dark energy.

A shadowy tendril would slip around and past Naamino, avoiding him entirely as it slipped towards the first of their opponents - the Dathomirian sorcerer Caedes had pointed out to her to target. If they allowed the snaking tendril to touch them, then it would be all over. If they wished to live, they would need to break her concentration and force her out of her current state - something that had never been done to her before, and who knew if it would work. And soon they would have to deal with Naamino as well, challenging them on a physical level.

Perhaps it would break their concentrated efforts against the Lord of Hunger - allowing him to continue doing whatever it was he was doing.

 

[Deonis Laythar]

Location: Death Star III, Atrisi System

Allies: Da'Razel | Darth Vinaze
Voldran Molf

Opponents: Darth Caedes | Revna Marr
Naamino Zuukamano | Haro Aven
The Lord of Hunger | Onrai
​

Spoiler: Accompanying NPCs

Name: Zharrek

• Force User: No
• Appearance: Zygerrian Mawite slaver, lean, feline-featured, wearing crimson robes
• Strengths: Fast, cunning, expert trapper, enhanced agility
• Weaknesses: Fragile in direct combat, relies on deception and control, overconfident
• Equipment: Zygerrian electro-whip, vibro-dagger, cortosis-weave bracers.

Location: Fire Gestalten | Speech

---

Name: Magister Vhol of Dathomir

• Force User: Yes
• Appearance: Dathomirian elder, gaunt and hollow-eyed, crimson robes embroidered with script
• Strengths: Master of Sith sorcery, powerful Force conduit
• Weaknesses: Frail body, over-reliant on Force powers
• Equipment: Staff, Sith talisman,
• Location: Fire Gestalten | Speech

---

Name: Brother Merrik Vaan

• Force User: Yes
• Appearance: Mirialan male, green skin tattooed with Sith runes layered over faded Jedi markings, crimson robes
• Strengths: Disciplined duelist, master of Soresu and defensive combat
• Weaknesses: Slower than most duelists, emotional fanaticism clouds judgment
• Equipment: Unstable crossguard lightsaber, cortosis-weave vambraces

Location: Fire Gestalten | Speech

Spoiler: TL;DR

• Deonis allows Onrai 's Anti-Force to consume his drain... which is entangled with The Lord of Hunger 's ritual, causing the Anti-Force to come into contact with - and presumably disrupt - that Force ritual as well
• Deonis is big mad that Darth Caedes sent someone else to fight him
• Deonis lashes out with Force Lightning at Revna Marr , trying to prevent her from draining Magister Vhol, and at Naamino Zuukamano , in an effort to kill him and get to Caedes

--------------------------
​

The galaxy is full of strange powers, held together by mystical forces far beyond Deonis's understanding. What should be impossible was irrelevant; the fact that it existed, in defiance of all reason, was still fact. The Droid God Omni, a being that should not have been able to manipulate an energy field that flowed through living things, sprang to mind. Deonis had never encountered the strange entity or Its servants himself, but he had seen Its impact upon the galaxy - the power It had exerted in Its plot to rewrite reality through netherworld technomancy.

A similarly alien and inexplicable power now intruded upon Deonis's efforts to drain away The Lord of Hunger 's leeching energies. He did not know the term Anti-Force, and could not have conceived of it as the energy field of an equal and opposite universe... but he did not have to understand what was happening in order to react to it. A frown crossed his features, a moment's confusion, before a smile replaced it. The enemy was using a kind of Force Nullification at the same time they were attempting a Force ritual! What a grand and intoxicating contradiction.

When Deonis had been in training with the Church of the Dark Side, he had been instructed in the art of poisoning. He had been shown how the slightest cut could introduce a lethal venom into the bloodstream, and how the heart's continued pumping would inevitably guide that toxin back to the internal organs. And so he let his Force Drain act like a circulatory system around The Lord of Hunger's much more powerful drain... even as Onrai poured Anti-Force into it. The Anti-Force flowed along his draining tendrils... and into The Lord of Hunger's ritual.

Anti-Force, like Antimatter, does not discriminate when it encounters its opposite; it annihilates. It cannot tell the difference between Deonis's ritual and The Lord of Hunger's ritual; both were composed of Force energy, the exact thing the Anti-Force cancels out. It was like a grenade thrown into a hostage situation - it simply explodes, killing civilians and militants alike. With the two Force rituals now entwined, both would be struck by the Anti-Force. Onrai could certainly cancel out Deonis's Force Drain, but she was unleashing a Force-cancelling power against her own ally at the same time.

And his mighty Hand of Avaritia was specifically weak against Force Nullification...

But Deonis could not afford to keep his full concentration on these more distant foes, no matter the danger they posed. The pretender Sith were right in front of him, hearing his challenge... and dismissing it. Hot rage curled in Deonis's belly as Darth Caedes and most of his entourage simply turned and prepared to find a route around him, dispatching just one of their number to deal with him and his three allies. It would have been one thing to have been destroyed, martyred for the Emperor by this mighty rival Sith. But to be spurned, all but ignored...

... it was an insult to Deonis's pride, one that filled him with hatred.

And hatred was the fuel of the Dark Side.

"I am His anointed servant!" the magistrate howled, raising hands that shook with rage. "Ignore me at your peril, pretender!" He sensed a surge of shadowy power as Revna Marr reached out with a mighty drain, one that - uninterrupted - would surely annihilate Magister Vhol. That could not be permitted; Vhol was needed to continue the work of combating The Lord of Hunger's siphon. So Deonis gave in to his hatred, vented his fury, let the Dark Side flow through him. He pointed his twitching fingertips at both Marr and Zuukamano and let loose.

A storm of lightning erupted from his hands, a pure expression of the Dark Side's evil.

Electrocution had a way of disrupting one's concentration.

Of course, Deonis could not simultaneously drain from the siphon and make his own Force attack. He had no choice but to let Magister Vhol continue alone, less directly draining and more allowing Onrai's Anti-Force to consume and negate the energy of both rituals. He put his full concentration into the attempt to electrocute Marr and Zuukamano, attempting to distract or harm the former before her shadowy tendrils could strike their target - as they already had struck the dying troopers around them, turning the men and women into lifeless husks.

Zharrek and Brother Vaan still stood at the ready, weapons on guard for an attack.

If Zuukamano weathered the lightning, they were prepared to intercept him.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

BREACH IN THE DEATH STAR'S HULL
​

When it finally phased out Gerra and the others would find themselves hurled towards the opening, minuscule and barely noticeable on the shell of the station but enormous to beings that were little more than ants thrown towards it...

Sars managed to hurl the trio towards the minuscule breach. Thankfully, they were more minuscule still.

The tractor beam yanked them through space far faster than their aimless floating might have carried them and in moments Gerra and the two others floated through the vast, jagged chasm in the hull of the Death Star.

From there, it was an effort of will and exertion in the Force to yank them into a corridor, where a doorway awaited. Gerra landed and opened it, the doorway cycled, releasing its atmosphere in a rush as they pushed inside. Then the three shut that door behind them and moved onto the next down the hall. This cycled too, but now their atmosphere was preserved.

Safety at last from the void.

Relatively.

"Well done, Sarad."

Limbs numb, skin frostbitten, and eyes bloodshot with the exposure to vacuum - preserved only by the Force itself - Gerra turned to Arris Windrun .

"Mercy is on her own against Solipsis. But, I suspect, that is how she would wish it. If we cannot take this station, I will not quit the field until we have left our mark upon it. What havoc can you wreak?"

Sars Sarad | Arris Windrun | Vestra Tane

@Open to Combat

 

[Arris Windrun]

Allies: Hasuras Na-Gerra | Sars Sarad | Mercy
Opp: Dark Forces | Open to opposition!

Things weren't much less dire now that they were back on board the station. The crystalized condensation stuck to Arris had melted and dripped down synflesh and cyberware alike.

In the space ahead, a contingent of junk golems sat idly amidst the corpses of other boarders. They would not be idle for long, she reckoned.

"Mercy is on her own against Solipsis. But, I suspect, that is how she would wish it. If we cannot take this station, I will not quit the field until we have left our mark upon it. What havoc can you wreak?"

Arris looked at Gerra with a glare rather than her usual shiteating grin. She switched on her embedded comlink and channeled Sars Sarad directly.

"I need controls. Anything that can link me to the station proper. Are we close to the overbridge? Find me anything."

Hopefully, he could access floor plans or devise something. Otherwise, the technopath would have to rely on her preternatural perceptions and put Darth Adekos ' training to the test.

To Gerra, it looked as if Arris just stood there, as her comlink was subvocal - thoughts transmitted over data, and reconstructed as her voice on the other end.

She looked at the Vahlan again. "Your friend will find us a route..." Her attention turned to the beasts. "But let's deal with that first."

Without awaiting confirmation, the cyborg began a quick march towards the golems, who had now noticed the intruders. Their sickly metallic forms groaned and scraped as they rushed to meet her approach. Arris drew an ambassador - a gun she preferred for supreme stopping power - and fired two well-placed rounds at the first. The heavy caliber tore through metal, shredding the vital joints that largely held the beast together, and left behind its writhing, helpless form.

The second managed to close the gap and smashed her aside with its battering ram-like arm, with its sights set upon Gerra instead. The scoundrel slammed loudly against the wall and stumbled forward. Two more such monstrosities blocked her path, and Arris was angry.

She reached into the Force with an outstretched hand and leveled her willpower, turning the two junk golems against each other like akk dogs fighting over scraps of meat.

If the station's defenders meant to stop their approach, then they would need to send in more than junk golems and troopers. Nothing short of the Dark Side Elite would stand a chance, and even then, a chance.

 

[Subject 1503]

ATRISIA, CORE WORLDS
Aboard the Death Star III

Srina Talon
​

He was no simple man, of that she was correct. While Srina's entire life had built her into the warrior she was, between her culture and the conflict-riddled path that her life had set her upon, the figure before her was quite literally built for that single purpose. Built up from a blank slate and flooded with endless propaganda, training and conditioning to conjure up a weapon of pure malevolent violence. Had he known the truth of her reputation, it wouldn't have mattered, he simply wouldn't have cared. If she was greater than him, if anyone was greater than him, they wouldn't prove it on reputation alone.

They would either kill him, or he would kill them. Such was the way of the Sith.

Still, her words would mean nothing to him - nothing but ramblings that he lacked the self-awareness to question. Were he not so embroiled in his own teachings, he might have wondered who it was she truly spoke of, wondered who this man was that she so confused him with. But that was only a distraction, she was mad like all those beyond the Blackwall, naught but rabid beasts to be put down.

As she caught his blade and sent him flowing past her, he swung wide back toward her, before he felt the air around him seize and take hold of him as she pulled on him. He set his feet, resisting the pull - though he felt it drawing on his chest with a particular pressure as he pressed back against it. He kept himself steady despite it, and so he was ready to meet her when she advanced upon him, bringing her blade up toward him as his own came down to clash with it, revealing in the moment of the clash the power behind his arm, the strength in each swing of his blade - had she not positioned herself to break the clash so quickly, he might have driven her back.

Instead, her blade broke away, and began to surge toward his torso. He might have been too close to avoid it, but his blade-arm was still quick, slipping beneath her blade to clash with it and drive it upward - the red of her saber made contact, but instead of plunging deep, it carved up along his breastplate and slashed across the heavy metal of his mask, marring it with a glowing scar.

If the injury had slowed him, it didn't show - his free hand curled into a fist, drawn back and then sent flying toward her own center-mass, carrying with it a pool of energy that burst upon contact. Against a solitary opponent that was focused on holding their ground, the ripple of energy that followed the impact would hit like waves, like the powerful punch was followed by fifty more of the same. To one that was more focused on evasion, the strike would blow them away, granting a moment's reprieve from their proximity.

"And you are in mine."

​

​

​

 

[Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim]

TAGS
Lilianna L'lerim Cesare Demici Kael Varnok

WRATH OF GOD
6

​

ACCESS HALLWAY (INFIRMARY GREEN), ABOARD THE DEATH STAR III,
APPROACHING ATRISIA, CORE WORLD TERRITORIES (903 ABY)

Ashla, I know I am asking too much to protect an outsider to the faith....
But Yorunarr, as you know, is the most virtuous of his polytheistic sort.

You sent him to me, hearing Lilia's prayers - my only request is that you protect him as such.
​

Rushing deeper into the heart of the Death Star, the Aavenian would require every ounce of patience for the dangers his Novanian Mentor would be facing without him, devoid of choice when push came to shove; and to make matters worse, the young Saint was under the personal impression they had time to face the larger threats together, leading him to the conclusion that his old friend was trying to sacrifice himself to give the young a chance. A needless risk for the endeavour they promised to complete together, but promises, like plans, rarely survived first contact with contingencies, and of all the advice old Yorunarr offered on the matter, Tancred would learn to understand that this would be an insight for which he would need to thank his duelling coach someday.

In Tancred's mind, he always felt the Galaxy would lose an indispensable wealth of knowledge if someone like Yorunarr perished before his time, hypothetically losing the still-active writer of multiple treatises on realms beyond the Rift, with many of his teachings even posing questions that still tested the next-generation of Highland Brotherhood Druids. All of it hinting at the possibility that other, kinder afterlife realms could be found somewhere adjacent to firmaments like Sedes Aurea and the Goidelic Valley of Ancestors, and with holopen still drafting works when he received orders to deploy for Atrisia, the young Saint knew his Priest-King contemporary was due for wider insulation from the Galaxy's many troubles.

However, of all the people L'lerim had studied in his years among the old Woad's Imperials, the old Novanian was always something of a blindside, with a service history covered in redactions and endless Holographic authentication-barriers, and not at all without reason. Any smarter, prodigious student would discern a grand extreme of proficiency from such a well-protected mystery, especially on the matter of his deployment to Lao-Mon, and judging by the fact the Lord Imperator's own file was covered in the same extremes of clandestine classification, the young Aavenian was smart enough to know it must have been a matter of great, destructive concern.

The young Saint could only remain curious without result by then, but if he had ever learned of Yorunarr's deeds that day, the ambulance speeder would have been propelled all the quicker toward the infirmary - but the pride in his mentor's prowess would need to wait.

~=Ellayina is on board as well… neither she nor Cesare will let me go.=~
~=I understand, this day was overdue after all. I'm not giving up, though.=~
~=Not today, Lilia.... Not today.=~​

Having slowed the ambulance to a halt, the young Saint was beginning to feel the onset of a nightmare, unfolding before his very eyes, like a curse from which he was incapable of liberating himself. Torn in his heart between (what he assumed was) the onset of impending grief, and the thought of losing one sister to the wicked whims of the other, and though the former seemed to spur the Aavenian toward the main mission at hand, the latter, he was still unsure as to whether he was ready for his life's greatest test of will so far. But then, something caught aflame within the deepest depths of Tancred's soul, sensing nothing feral, nothing bloodthirsty or avaricious for that matter, and in recallings of the way his mentor described it, the young Saint had found what he finally understood to be Ashlan Defiance.

The great hope that light would triumph over darkness, that belief itself could ascend the limitations of evil, a will passed down, that the Will of one moon would eclipse another over Tython. To stand as a bulwark against the works of Sith and Bogan design, to defy all who dared to bring the faithful to the brink, and in the midst of his angered, dismayed low, Tancred finally understood the power of his primary countering function. As long as the faithful resisted, as long as wicked plans unravelled in their wake, divine hands would always lead them to glory, granting courage enough to take a leap of faith at the pinnacle moment.

Tancred could feel it coursing through his veins by then, bringing him to the point of pondering whether Ashla truly wanted this for him, but the great leap would take precedence, forcing the young Aavenian to comparmentalise his apprehension for the sake of something greater. The time had come to endeavour that one deed for which he would always be remembered, and for all the dismay the Aavenian was feeling before that moments, remembering his mentors' encouragements seemed to cast it all asunder for that belief in himself, as both Michael and Yorunarr alike had told of how best to respond when such realisations befell heroes under duress.

'ASHLA WIIIIIIILLS IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!'

 

[Drystan Creed]

DEATH STAR III

With the stun bolts flying toward Drystan, he tilted his head, welcoming the added complexity of this little scenario. He raised his prosthetic arm, blocking a few, though some managed to get past. While a normal man would have fallen, given his enhancement through the Force and the sheer conditioning of his body, he held firm. The stinging electric jolts coursing through his nerves were quickly corrected as he willed the currents out of his body and back into the air, aided by the Force.

He stood, his coat now singed as his gritted teeth slowly eased into a smile. He wouldn't have it any other way—a nice little challenge to take.

"Yeah... that's more like it. Let's keep this going."

But as Brandyn took a stance, Drystan raised an eyebrow beneath his visor—then let out a loud sigh.

"Soresu, huh?" He rubbed his chin, his posture relaxing as though he weren't mid-combat. A noticeable pause followed before he finally spoke again. "How... antiquated."

His left hand centered his scabbard until the tip of the hilt rested ahead, level with his stomach.

"Don't get me wrong—forms and styles are a nice way to refine your skills. But they eventually lead to... crystallization. By taking that stance, I already have a general idea of your strategy."

His stance lowered, knees bending and loosening. Soresu embodied the principles of defense, but from his experience both with and against it, it treated combat as a marathon.

A smart duelist would devise a strategy to counter his opponent's approach, all for the sake of victory. But Drystan had thrown reason aside. His desires had once again gotten the better of him—his thirst for combat whispering in his ear, forgoing all strategy. The absence of it filled with one singular thought:

ONE. SIDED. DOMINATION.

Not to counter his opponent's strategy, but to utterly crush it—to break through with sheer prowess and see it shattered. He would commit to that singular thought, despite whatever disadvantages it brought.

With this in mind, his left hand brought the handle of his blade closer to his hovering right, fingers tapping lightly against it—not a full grip, keeping his intent veiled until the final instant.

Before nature unleashes her wrath upon any world under her grasp, there are always signs that herald the disaster to come: the calm before the storm, the tide's recession before a tsunami, the faint tremors before an earthquake. Subtle yet certain omens of devastation. This moment would follow the same pattern. A tranquil sign of the devastation to come.

Drystan's calm would precede a wrathful torrent—a storm's strength and speed condensed into a singular strike. It was a peculiar stance, a sprinter's crouch mixed with a swordsman's quickdraw, coalescing into the certainty of his intent.

And it would be but one final, tranquil moment before hell was unleashed.

His legs coiled and detonated, launching him forward like a bullet. The metal beneath his boots buckled from the sheer force of his takeoff. A blinding dash toward his opponent—his left finger pulled the trigger of his scabbard, launching the blade from the ballistic charge within the sheath. The recoil was powerful enough to break an arm, but his grip caught it tight at the last moment as he brought the swing upward in a devastating slash.

The blow rocked the room with a violent shake, the resulting wind tearing through the air and sending garments flapping wildly in the wake of a single, perfect gust.

Casaana Brandyn Sal-Soren

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Allies | Mykel Dawson
Opposition | Luvaen Malstadt
​

All it took was one slipped moment in time - one distraction, one mistake - for a life to end.

The Force whispered in cruel reverence as Luvaen's blade struck true. The Chiss was left with a diagonal slash that ran from her shoulder to her ribcage, the scent of charred flesh and fabric rising to meet her pained shock. Dark blue lips parted, quivering in suspended agony as she turned her dying focus from the deranged Rodian to her opponent.

She swayed on her feet, stumbling until she collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor. Her head lolled to the side, the bright crimson light of her eyes dimming dramatically.

That left Orron alone, trembling in fear. Fear of what he'd done, fear of the dark enigma in front of him, fear for the sake of fear itself. It was all-encompassing, an inescapable tide that threatened to swallow him whole and drag him deep into the depths of hysteria.

Then, his shaking ceased. It wasn't peace that overtook him, nor relief. Just stillness as he was enveloped by the Force. His head rolled back, and he too slumped to the cold metal floor - this time in unconsciousness.

The falling of Orron's body revealed a figure at the end of the hall. A fourth Jedi. Her extended hand fell to her side as she paced closer, her steps steady and measured, her focus on Luvaen and the particular way the Force shifted around him.

Their world suddenly lurched as Sovereign's Pride crashed into the massive Death Star. As Cora was thrown forward toward Luvaen, she took advantage of the momentary chaos.

A heavy, plated elbow drove toward his head, attempting to shatter his helmet or induce a moment stupor. In her other hand, the blue blade of her lightsaber hissed to life, aiming to strike at whichever limb was the most exposed.

"What you aim to protect is the same thing that would destroy you," she hissed.

 

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

Wrath of God

Acier Moonbound ​

Hesitation. Where the men and women serving under his command would have switched to stun immediately and in unison, the defenders of the third Death Star did not. Ravoch's eyes snapped from the non-Padawan to one of the unhelmeted Stormtroopers. Narrow yellow orbs shone intensely as he stared into her soul. Click - stunmode was activated. Another click followed in short succession. Soon, the squad seemed to be in full compliance.

Calm and unbothered, the Lord closed the distance to the ashen-haired Rebel with leisurely strides. Meanwhile, Stormtroopers were taking shots at the boy from off-angles as they worked to surround him. When Ace charged, a subtle wave was all Ravoch needed to bend the Force to his will: A telekinetic force wrapped around the attacker, forcing him back.

What came next was impressive. With a single sweep, the ashen-haired Rebel somehow managed to cut the lights, not only of the chamber they were currently in, but also the connecting corridor. Soon, all that provided even a fraction of light was his lightsaber and a few tiny lights at the door console. It was only a matter of time before the backup power would kick in - or until a trooper found a flashlight. Until then, however, the darkness effectively reduced the efficiency of the Stormtroopers to an abysmally low level.

A sigh escaped the Lord - this little game was one they had already played in the smoke filled maintenance corridor. Once more, he closed his eyes and reached out through the Force: Then he saw all he needed to see. Long decisive strides brought him in the direction that his prey was running in. Ravoch raised his blade high before pointing it ahead of him with a stern command "This way."

Perhaps the Rebel would have been able to slip away under normal circumstances. Especially since Ravoch was only walking at a brisk pace while Ace himself was running. These were, however, not normal circumstances. Darkness and unknown corridors kept Ace's pace manageable and the reinforcing Stormtroopers - while ultimately not posing enough of a threat to take their Force wielding foe down - did do an adequate job in slowing him down.

Eventually, they would catch up. A few defenders had been knocked down or disarmed. One, had been killed at the very end. Ravoch's gaze fell upon the victim - empty hazle eyes, framed by focused brows, stared off into the matte grey ceiling. "That was unnecessary." he stated matter-of-factly while reaching out with his free arm, willing the doors to close before the killer moved through them. They could easily be reopened, of course - but not before Ravoch had the chance to properly close the distance.

Rocketing through the darkness like a guided missile, the Lord leaped towards his target. threatening to cut Ace's legs unless he defended himself or tried to escape. The low attack would effortlessly transition into a high swing and then a thrust. Just like before, he allowed his follow-through attacks to follow a clear rhythm and show an obvious pattern - but unlike last time the Rebel already had his back against the wall. Each swing was backed by the strength of a Rancor. Novice Padawans could likely have figured out the best way to block the attacks - but maintaining the strength and stamina to keep it up was a different question entirely.

"You have already given in to the dark side." His voice was raised high, overshadowing the blaring alarms, clashing blades and boots clicking against the metallic floor as more reinforcements approached. "But you don't care, do you? Does the lives of these men and women matter so little to you that you can cut them down without remorse?" Oppressive and dripping with authority, Ravoch paused for a brief moment as his piercing eyes bore deeper into those of his foe before letting out a vicious "Or have you grown numb to it?"

For a moment, the Lord relented. The overwhelming flurry of attacks calmed for a few seconds. It was as if he was considering what to do. Finally, his mind had been made. With a powerful swing, Ravoch smashed his blade against his foe with enough force to shatter metal. His domineering voice followed "You are a ticking bomb, a danger to everyone around you. Only I can save you from yourself."

 

[Srina Talon]

Allies: SO + ME
Direct Tag Because I'm Gonna Hit You In The Face: Subject 1503
Tag: Darth Caedes | Revna Marr | Elmindra Xitaar | Madrona A’Mia | Taeli Raaf | Gerwald Lechner | Lina Ovmar | Aether Verd | Renn Vizsla | Domina Prime | Aselia Verd | Naamino Zuukamano | Haro Aven | Korda Veydran | Siv Kryze | The Lord of Hunger | Onrai | Velda Nar-Donna
Location: Kitel Phard System (Near Atrisia) - [Death Star III]

____________________________________________________

The sound of lightsabers colliding was like a faultline splitting.

<<Let me be an anchor, Lina.>>

Sparks flew.

<<I will provide all that I can.>>

Srina could feel the weave beginning…It was likely the first time that Lina Ovmar would have heard the Sith Empress utter her first name, almost, as if she had forgotten it might exist. It wasn't spoken with disrespect while the Sith Lord leaned on the expertise of Madrona A’Mia but brought on by a requirement to be brief. She could focus on the problem at hand, the ritual, or social graces—But not all three. Something had to give.

Her body turned slightly from the impact, noting his immense strength, but she had never been the sort to buckle when faced with proverbial giants. There was energy to be found in the movement of her enemy and rather than waste her own she would try and find a way to use it. The breath she took was measured, almost serene, despite the metal beneath their feet trembling from the pressure of their exchange. His mask was still smoking from her previous slash and it filled the air with the acrid scent of scorched metal. Beneath it, she could still feel him.

The slender Echani did not know what trickery the Faithless had employed in the creation of this assassin but the thrum of the man he had once been still lingered in an echo. He didn't seem to know it—But she did. It was too close, too familiar, like an old injury acting up to remind her that it still had the ability to cause pain. This was Aryn…But it was not. This, was a shell. An organic machine that had been given the ability to draw breath, but not think for itself, nor respond to anything but the kill.

Clearly…She was the intended mark of this deception. Did the Empire think it would unseat her? Throwing the likeness of her past back in her face?

His fist connected with her midsection before she could redirect it.

The attack struck like thunder against her ribs and a brutal bloom of pain cracked through her frame. It would have been worse if it weren't for her armor, but even still, it did send her staggering half a step back. It was a calculated risk. His fist hurt but if she let his lightsaber fall it was poised to cleave her in half. Her jaw locked tight but she didn't release her blade. The weapon remained locked against his, even, when another wave of power struck her. It forced the air from her lungs…

But it also gave her a way forward.

The pain became leverage, and that, was an anchor that she could pivot from.

The Force suddenly folded around her like a veil and caught the next bursts of kinetic energy as though she were bracing repeatedly against a crashing tide. The subsequent waves rolled over her and split around her form to hit the wall behind them. For a moment, the corridor became a blur of displaced air and shrieking metal, cracking beneath such intense pressure.

This area was becoming unstable…

Srina couldn't do anything about that, unconcerned, because the walls of the Death Star still held. The broken wall, could have been her broken spine.

The slender creature pivoted on her heel, twisting to miss his blade, before drawing her own in another swift upward slash. While he might have had her beat on raw strength her innate speed easily made up the difference. If his weapon rose up to meet her, she would keep the contact brief, because she was already elsewhere. Her next movement was faster than thought with the crimson light of her blade tracing a curving path across his flank. It didn't touch him, yet. Just testing the seams of his armor to assess his defenses. Already, it was damaged.

"You fight like a child."

Her words weren't cruel, not that he would care, but issued as a point of fact. The entirety of her existence had been based around combat, trained, and honed, by the best Echani warriors that the Six Sisters had to offer. Experience and expertise in her native tongue could not be forged through the falsehoods of whatever experiment his Empire had concocted. It was a facsimile of what a true warrior had to offer and in terms of practical experience…He was a child. He felt like one. Fought like one.

Blind…Save for the rules his master had provided.

She pressed forward again, unrelenting, and the Darkside moved through her like a living current. Sparking light shrieked into existence when their sabers met, bursting, and vanishing with every slash and parry. The air grew dense again, not from anger or fear, but from the sheer gravity of her will. He might not feel her through the Force as she felt him…But the world around them did. The corridor groaned. Walls that were already damaged, bowed. A mist of dust and shattered glass trembled upward as if it were afraid to touch her…But things had changed.

From the darkness between ribs of bulkhead crawled ink-black threads, not solid, but present. They slid along machinery, threaded through seams, burrowing into joints and ports. They moved like rot that did not intend to consume flesh, but to unmake function, to stiffen servos. Srina did not raise a hand to him but created space for the threads to do the cutting for her. They locked him in, trapping him with her, lashing out to try and coil around his limbs…Infect his armor. The midnight black tendrils would lurch toward him repeatedly, seeking to bind muscle and metal, to make it so he couldn't move.

At the same time—It was her needlework, her weaving the Darkside into the Deathstar in a new way to prepare it for those that she had left behind on the Eidolon.

The shadow would part for her like curtains being drawn back.

"There you are…"

Invisible fingers would pry at his helmet, wrenching it to the side, determined to remove it. She could feel it begin to give… "Show me…"

Her voice echoed, refracting, carrying into different tones while holding a mesmerizing quality. The sound was both high and low, demonic, and sweet, with all the power of a falling star.

"Show me what is left of you."
​

Spoiler: Equpiment

Armour Saber Ring Ring Terentatek Body Gloves HG-54 "The Vora" Class Hand Cannon Holding Aces

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Death Star III

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber

The metal door slammed shut with a heavy hiss, sealing the corridor. Ravoch's doing. There was no doubt. Ace reached out through the Force, fingers twitching, beginning to pry the door open. But there wasn't time. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand and the rebel swiftly spun around, lightsaber ready.

The crimson blur of Ravoch's blade swept low, aimed to take his legs out. Ace jumped back, sparks flaring where the blade kissed the floor. He parried high, the next strike already coming for his shoulder, the rhythm of it impossibly fast, impossibly heavy. Each blow forced him to react, not think, just survive. The pressure was suffocating, the precision carving through his defense until every instinct screamed at once.

Throughout every strike, Ravoch had something to say. Something that threated to cut deep into Ace's psyche. His jaw locked, the guilt intensifying, the anger. But not only that, somewhere deeper, was the ache of loss too. His mother, Sibylla Abrantes at the Masquerade, all of it threatened to unravel him.

As Ravoch followed up with another strike, one threatening to break him completely, he moved. Ace dipped his shoulder, letting the plasma barely skim across his shoulder, heat biting close. He rolled with the weapon's movement, twisting into the motion like a fighter slipping a punch. Ace's counter came fast, one tight pivot, his lightsaber snapping up from his hip in a rising arc.

If it landed, the blade would have caught Ravoch across the shoulder in a flash of blue and scorched metal. Instinct, sharpened to a killing edge.

Then the entire world shook. The deck lurched, a metal groan rising from somewhere deep in the Death Star's gut. The tremor ran up through his boots, rattling teeth and lungs alike. Overhead, red emergency lights flared and died, replaced by a hollow hum. Then, from far above, came the unmistakable boom of a colossal impact.

Through the Force, Ace felt it before he heard it, a massive gravitational scream, like the station itself had been struck in the heart. The shockwave hit his senses as a wave of death and panic, hundreds of thousands of voices blinking out in the dark.

Ace staggered, catching himself against the wall. Then something else touched his mind, not Ravoch, not the cold hunger of the dark, but something soft. Familiar. Centered. Matsu Ike 's voice brushed against his conscious, calm and almost teasing. Senzu Bean...?

He barely had time to process it before the Force flooded through him, a jolt of clarity and warmth that steadied his pulse. It wasn't strength exactly, but focus. The noise in his head dulled, replaced by a fragile sense of balance. Ace's breathing evened.

"I'm not your project." Ace said, pointing his blade at the Sith Lord, voice low and sharp. "And I don't need saving."

Kyrothian Ravoch​